


An Evening Ritual

by HolmesianDeduction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Ritual, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watching Mycroft Holmes undress is somehow mesmerising in the same way that a tamed cobra rising from a basket is graceful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Evening Ritual

             Watching Mycroft Holmes undress is mesmerising.

             It took longer than it probably should have for you to admit it to yourself, but it _is._

             As usual, you arrived several minutes early to the expensive flat located at the address that he forced you to memorise several months ago, when all of this started, and as usual, he arrived half a minute late, though you don't dare mention it to him.  There is a brief exchange over the telephone about arranging dinner later, and then, like clockwork the ritual of undressing.

             It begins, as always, in the pair of armchairs in front of the fireplace.  You in the one on the left, him in the one on the right.  He starts with his suit jacket.  It unbuttons easily, the expensive fabric parting just as cleanly as cheap fabric, and is draped almost carelessly over the back of the chair.  The waistcoat follows, each button delicately undone by fingers that don't _look_ like they should be nimble, but _are_.

             Then, with the discarding of the waistcoat and the loosening of that disgustingly patterned neck tie, the second step of the ritual begins with the removal of his finely tooled brown leather dress shoes and the commencement of discreet glances in your direction.  These never cease to make you feel slightly invaded, as it's a look you're all too familiar with.  The looking-you-over-and-knowing-everywhere-you've-been look.  You can see the itemised list forming in his head.

1\. _Dark slacks._  
2\. _Rumpled button-up._  
3\. _Loosened neck tie._  
4\. _Overcoat on the back of the chair._  
5\. _Missing police badge--I'll have to talk to him about doing that._  


_Conclusion: Day on the job.  Brixton.  Multiple homicide.  Close call with my brother.  Left a note at home.  Didn't stop on the way here._

             You shake your head, somewhat bothered by how easy it's become to read the thought process behind his nearly covert glances and slow, deliberate body language.  It occurs to you that you didn't stop at home to put something in the microwave, but the girls are both in high school now--they probably would have eaten something else anyway.

             By the time you pull yourself away from that line of thought, Mycroft is down to his elegantly stitched brown and black argyle socks.  You never quite understood _why_ he left his socks for last when the usual common sense would dictate that they come off with his shoes, but then you remind yourself the Mycroft is a Holmes, and the hallmark of the Holmes brothers is that they operate on _uncommon_ sense.  In either case, you resolve never to ask him.

             Suddenly, the second sock drifts to rest upon the top of its shoe in a single, oddly sensual movement, and by the time you raise your eyes, he has already retreated to the almost strategically centrally located bedroom, leaving you to kick off your own shoes and socks before following after him.


End file.
